


Learning

by Adlanth



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn Battle, Porn Battle XIV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 09:38:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adlanth/pseuds/Adlanth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Porn Battle XIV, using the prompt words: power, teach, embodied.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning

**Author's Note:**

> Artanis = Galadriel

She comes into Doriath as an Exile, a Kinslayer. Dreams of blood-stained waves at Alqualondë wash through her every night, and she wakes stiff and shaking with anger. Sometimes she thinks the Helcaraxë has frozen her through, and that she will never feel warmth again. Not even her hopes of dominion are to be achieved, for Beleriand is not empty. She who had hoped to rule her own realm finds herself spending most of her time in another kingdom’s. In Doriath, she finds Thingol too proud; Lúthien, too wild. And she is certainly not inclined to spend much time in the company of coolly-mannered, aloof, silver-haired princes. Then there is Melian: serene Melian in her flowing gowns of dark silk, slowly stepping through the halls of Menegroth, soft-spoken and quiet. A Maia! Artanis thinks in disgust, thinking of the powerful creatures she knew in Aman. A Maia reduced to playing the matron.

When Melian offers to teach her she is surprised and unwilling. Only at Findaráto’s bidding does she accept.

Alone in her chambers Melian is warmer, less stately, less grave. Artanis learns of the power she wields over the borders of Doriath, and of how she struggles against Morgoth’s will. Some things she cannot teach a mere Elf, but there is still much that Artanis learns: how to cast out her thought into the past and the futures in search of answers, how to touch another being’s mind without doing violence to it. During these lessons she has no choice but to let Melian glimpse into her mind, catch snatches of dreams, memories, hopes and desires.

“You are a very proud girl,” Melian says once, and Artanis bristles - whether at ‘proud’ or at ‘girl’ she does not know. But Melian merely smiles. “No matter. I love a very proud man.”

Still, she teaches Artanis how to kneel.

***

Silence and stillness come easily to Melian, a being far older than Artanis can possibly fathom; less so to Artanis herself. She has to learn. Melian’s power weighs heavily on her skin, twines like vines about her body, detects the merest hint of motion. Kneeling in a shadowed, sandy grove, Artanis thinks of Thingol, rooted in awe of Melian for centuries. He too must have knelt beautifully as the trees grew about them; he must have been utterly still and worshipful in his desire.

Desire, yes. She has too much time to stare, to look at Melian’s body flowing beneath the dark cloak of her hair and of her clothes. For a long time she does not know if Melian knows, until the merest downwards flicker of Melian’s gaze tells her she does. Artanis trembles in embarrassment, and yet a spike of desire shoots through her. Because of this she earns further punishment. She thinks she too could kneel for centuries, millenia. She must.

***

Eventually, Melian reaches out to her in pity. Her hand rests on Artanis’s throat and on the pulse that beats there and then beats faster at her touch. Her fingers steal over Artanis’s cheek, her lips. Both her hands smooth down Artanis’s shoulders, then softly down her breasts. Artanis barely breathes. When Melian’s fingers untie her clothes, she thinks she might feel dizzy, and when she is entirely bared to the cool air, a shudder runs through her. She yearns for Melian’s nakedness, longs to touch the round, soft breasts she can glimpse beneath her gown, to worship every inch of Melian’s warm skin. But Melian merely leans close, so close that her fabric of her dress brushes against Artanis’s erect nipples.

“Close your eyes,” she says. “Do not move.”

Artanis obeys. There is a sound of rustling fabric, and Melian is behind her. Artanis feels her hair being lifted, and cool air flows against the nape of her neck. Artanis is not proud of her beauty, but she loves her own gold and silver hair, and for a moment she thinks Melian might cut it, rob of her one vanity. But Melian lets go, slowly, and strand by strand it falls back against Artanis’s naked back, brushing her buttocks, and she nearly sighs at the caress of her own hair.

Then, when Melian’s soft, commanding hands guide her down, she lies on the cool sand of the grove. For a moment she is alone, then she feels the slightest touch against her neck, then her breasts. This time she knows it is the dark silk of Melian’s own hair, softer than her own, falling upon her like night. Softer, and yet as it touches her it raises a keen pleasure. It caresses Artanis’s breasts, and raises goosebumps, falls against her nipples, her heaving ribs, covered in fine sheen of sweat. Artanis draws in a great heaving breath, and her stomach hollows - Melian’s touch follows like water pouring over her, over her belly and down between her legs. Artanis’s thighs part of their own accord, and she lies splayed, open wide. She is not so proud now; she does not care how much her body begs.

For a moment she is alone, then there is another rustling sound, and the faintest touch against her inner thigh, and she knows where Melian is. She does not dare breathe, and her whole body tenses in anticipation. Then something touches her where she is most vulnerable, most open - Melian’s lips, infinitely soft and powerful upon her. For a long time she does not move, and Artanis, shaking, draws in a shaky, desperate breath, then another. Still she does not open her eyes, merely imagines Melian kneeling between her thighs, humbling herself to kiss with lips of flesh a mere child of Eru - humbled and all powerful.

Then Melian starts to move, her tongue sliding along Artanis’s folds, parting them. She is warm and slick and Artanis rocks her hips slightly but helplessly each time. Pleasure unfolds through her, and she abandons herself to it, though she longs to crush herself against that mouth, to press her hand into Melian’s warm dark hair. Once, she raises her hand and extends it blindly, and at once Melian leaves her. Only after she has let her hand fall back does Melian return to her, unhurriedly, and this time she keens her pleasure, digs her fingers deep into the forest floor, arches into the touch.

And then there is something in her. It is not flesh, but it is Melian. Raw power filling her - almost like a physical presence in the hollow between her legs, then diffusing through her body. There is nothing ethereal about it - Artanis knows that Melian’s power could tear her apart, that there is nothing soft about Melian, and the way she guards her realm. Again she arches, and in the grip of that power she is as terrified as she has ever been on the Helcaraxë, or at Alqualondë. But Melian does not seek to destroy, and what tears through Artanis is not pain but a heart-wrenching pleasure. It pulses in her limbs and in her belly, across her skin and in her sex, and she nearly sobs.

When it leaves her she slumps against the floor, and in the end it is Melian’s mouth alone that brings her pleasure, as Melian moves between her trembling, tired thighs. It is gentle but it is that soft, warm touch upon her sex that brings her pleasure, rippling through her again and again in clear waves.

At last her body slackens, sated and worn out. There is a fluttering touch upon her eyelids, and she opens her eyes at last, looking up into the face of Melian, who has never seemed so beautiful than now, tendrils of black hair about her face, and flushed, after all. She is naked now, though Artanis does not know when she loosed her gown; she is bared and vulnerable, like a child of Eru - and she is not. But she will don it again, Artanis thinks, and leave her slumped on the forest floor. But Melian does not, and merely lies next to Artanis. She drapes an arm around her, and her slender leg slides between Artanis’s stained thighs. At last Artanis feels that body flush against hers - the warmth and softness of it. She does not wish to grasp at it now, or to capture it; she lets herself be lulled by its presence, by Melian’s hand sliding softly, caressingly into her hair, soothing her into sleep.

When she raises drowsy eyes, she finds that Melian’s gaze is full of pity. Yet there is no softness there. A steely-eyed compassion, a hard-edged love. She sleeps.


End file.
